The evening of the soiree had arrived. In quick succession drove the
carriages up the broad entrance to the mansion of Herr Ebenstreit, The
curious street public pressed in compact masses near the gate to peep
in, or at least catch a fugitive glance of the ladies alighting from
their carriages, who were received by the butler at the foot of the
carpeted steps. A host of gold-bespangled footmen lined the entrance
upon each side, which was ornamented with the most exquisite hot-house
plants, filling the air with perfume.
Two tall, stately footmen, with broad gold shoulder-bands and large
gilt batons, stood at the door of the anteroom, which was brilliantly
illuminated with chandeliers and side-lights, reflected in the numerous
mirrors. The anteroom led into the reception-room by wide folding-doors,
where the names were given to the usher, who announced them in a
stentorian voice in the drawing-room. There stood the Baron von
Ebenstreit to receive the guests, all smiles, and with bustling
assiduity accompany them to the adjoining drawing-room to present them
to the baroness.
Among the select company were conspicuous the most distinguished
names of the aristocracy. Generals and staff-officers, countesses and
baronesses were crowded together, with the ladies of the financial
world, near ministers and counsellors in this gorgeous saloon, which was
the delight and admiration of the envious, and excited the tongues of
the slanderous. Those acquainted gathered in the window-niches and
cosy corners, maliciously criticising the motley crowd, and eminently
consoled with the sure prospect of the ruin of the late banker,
surrounding himself with such unbecoming splendor and luxury, the bad
taste of his arrogant, overdressed, and extravagant wife.
“Have you noticed her parure of diamonds?” whispered the Countess Moltke
to Fran von Morien. “If they are real, then she wears an estate upon her
shoulders.”
“The family estate of Von Leuthen,” laughingly replied Frau von Morien.
“You know, I suppose, that the father of General von Leuthen was a
brick-burner, and he may have succeeded in changing a few bricks into
diamonds.”
“You are wicked, sweet one,” replied the countess, smiling. “One must
acknowledge that her toilet is charming. I have never seen its equal.
The gold lace over the rose-colored satin is superb.”
“Yes, and the mingling of straw feathers, diamonds, flowers, lace, and
birds is truly ridiculous in her head-dress.”
“It must have been copied exactly from the one which the Queen Marie
Antoinette wore at the ball at Versailles a fortnight since. The
baroness was present at this court ball with her greyhound of a husband,
and created quite a sensation with her costly recherchee toilet, as the
French ambassador told us yesterday.”
“Certainly not by her manner,” said Frau von Morien. “She is
insupportably arrogant and self-sufficient. What do you think of this
pretentious manner of announcing our names as if we were at an auction
where they sold titles?”
“It is a very good French custom,” remarked the countess. “But it
does not become a lady of doubtful nobility and uncertain position, to
introduce foreign customs here. She should leave this to others, and
modestly accept those already in use by us.”
“One remarks the puffed-up parvenue,” whispered Frau von Morien. “Every
thing smells of the varnish upon the newly-painted coat-of-arms.”
“Hush, my friend! I there comes the baroness leaning upon the arm of the
French ambassador. She is indeed imposing in appearance, and one could
mistake her for a queen.”
“Could any one ever suppose that this queen once made flowers to sell?
Come, countess, I have just thought of a charming scene to revenge
myself upon this arrogant personage.”
Giving her arm to the countess, she approached her hostess leaning upon
the arm of the Marquis de Treves, the French ambassador, as they were
standing beneath the immense chandelier of rock crystal, which sparkled
above them like a crown of stars, causing her diamonds to look as if in
one blaze of different hues.
“Oh, permit us to sun ourselves in your rays, ma toute belle,” said the
Countess Moltke. “One could well fancy themselves in a fairy palace, so
enchanting is everything here.”
“And the baroness’s appearance confirms this impression,” remarked the
gallant Frenchman. “Fancy could not well paint a more lovely fairy in
one’s happiest dreams.”
“Yes, truly I wander around as if in an enchanted scene. I feel as if
I must seize myself by the head and be well shaken, to convince myself
that I am really awake and not dreaming a chapter from Aladdin. I made
the effort, but felt the wreath of roses in my hair, and--”
“And that convinced you of your wakefulness,” said the baroness, a
little haughtily. Turning to the ambassador, she added: “Do you observe,
monsieur le marquis, what a delicate attention this lady shows me in
wearing a wreath of flowers which I manufactured?”
“Comment! The baroness is truly a fairy! She causes flowers to grow at
her pleasure, and vies with Nature. It seems impossible. I can scarcely
believe it.”
“And yet it is true,” said Frau von Morien. “The baroness, indeed,
fabricated these roses three years since, when she had the kindness to
work for me. You will acknowledge that I have kept them well?”
“It was no kindness of mine, but a necessity,” said the baroness, “and I
must confess that I would not have undertaken so troublesome a piece of
work from pure goodness or pleasure. You will remember that I was very
poor before my marriage, and as Frau von Morien was one of my customers,
it is very natural that she possesses my flowers. She gave me many
orders, and paid me a very small price, for she is very practical and
prudent, and understands bargaining and cheapening, and when one is
poor they are obliged to yield to the shameless parsimony of the rich.
I thank you, my dear benefactress, for the honor you have shown me
in wearing my flowers, for it has been a pleasant occasion to explain
ourselves and recognize each other. Have the kindness to recall other
remembrances of the past.”
“I do not remember possessing any other souvenirs,” replied the
countess, confused.
“Have you forgotten that I gave French lessons to your niece, the present
Frau von Hohenthal? She came to me three times weekly, because the
lessons were a few groschen cheaper at the house.”
At this instant the usher announced in a loud voice, “Professor Philip
Moritz.”
A gentleman of slight proportions, in an elegant fashionable dress,
appeared and remained standing in the doorway, his large black eyes
wandering searchingly through the drawing-room. Herr von Ebenstreit
approached, extending him his hand, uttering a few unintelligible words,
which his guest appeared not to notice, but, slightly inclining, asked
if he would present him to the lady of the house.
“Have the kindness to follow me,” said Ebenstreit, leading Moritz
through the circle of jesting, slandering ladies and gentlemen, to
the centre of the room, where Marie was still standing with the French
ambassador and the two ladies.
“My dear,” said her husband, “I have brought you an old acquaintance,
Professor Moritz.”
As Ebenstreit would retreat, Moritz commanded him to remain, placing his
white-gloved hand upon his arm, and holding him fast. “I would ask you
one question before I speak with the baroness.”
Moritz spoke so loud, and in such a strange, harsh, and repulsive
manner, that every one turned astonished, asking himself what it meant.
Conversation was hushed, and the curious pressed toward the peculiar
group in the centre to the baroness, who regarded her husband perfectly
composed, and the pale man, with the flashing eyes, the glance of which
pierced her like daggers.
A breathless silence reigned, broken only by Ebenstreit’s trembling
voice. “What is it, professor? How can I serve you?”
“Tell me who you are?” replied Moritz, with a gruff laugh.
“I am the Baron Ebenstreit von Leuthen!”
“And the scar which you bear upon your face, is it not the mark of a
whip, with which I lashed a certain Herr Ebenstreit three years since,
who prevented my eloping with my betrothed? I challenged him to fight a
duel, but the coward refused me satisfaction, and then I struck him in
the face, causing the blood to flow. Answer me--are you this gentleman?”
Not a sound interrupted the fearfully long pause which followed. Every
one turned astonished to Ebenstreit, who, pale as death, was powerless
to utter a word, but stood staring at his opponent.
“Why do you not answer me?” cried Moritz, stamping his foot. “Are you
the coward? Was this red scar caused by the whip-lash?”
Another long pause ensued, and a distinctly audible voice was heard,
saying, “Yes, it is he!”
“Who replied to me?” asked Moritz, turning his angry glance away from
Ebenstreit.
“I,” said Marie. “I reply for my husband!”
“You? Are you the wife of this man?” thundered Moritz.
“I am,” Marie answered.
“Is this invitation directed to me from you?” he continued, drawing a
paper from his pocket. “Did you permit yourself to invite me to your
house?”
“Yes, I did,” she calmly answered.
“And by what right, madame? This is the question I wish answered, and I
came here for that purpose.”
“I invited you because I desired to see you.”
“Shameless one!” cried Moritz, furious.
“Sir,” cried the ambassador, placing himself before Moritz, defying his
anger, “you forget that you are speaking to a lady. As her husband is
silent, I declare myself her knight, and I will not suffer her to be
injured by word or look.
“How can you hinder me?” cried Moritz, with scorn. “What will you do
if I dash this paper at her feet, and forbid her to ever write my name
again?” Making a ball of it, he suited the action to the word, casting a
defiant look at the marquis.
“I shall order the footmen to thrust you out of the house. Here,
servants, remove this man; he is an escaped lunatic, undoubtedly.”
Two footmen pressed forward through the circle which crowded around
Moritz.
“Whoever touches me, death to him!” thundered Moritz, laying his hand
upon a small sword at his side.
“Let no one dare lay a hand on this gentleman,” cried Marie, with a
commanding wave of her hand to the lackeys. “I beseech you, marquis, and
you, honored guests, to quietly await the conclusion of this scene, and
to permit Herr Moritz to finish speaking.”
“Do you mean to defy me, madame?” muttered Moritz, gnashing his teeth.
“You perhaps count upon my magnanimity to keep silent, and not disclose
the secrets of the past to this aristocratic assembly. I stand here as
its accusing spirit, and condemn you as a shameless perjurer.--I will
ask you who are here rendering homage to this woman, if you know who she
is, and of what she has been guilty? As a young girl she was as sweet
and innocent as an angel, and seemed more like a divine revelation.
To think of her, inspired and elevated one’s thoughts, and heaven was
mirrored in her eyes. She was poor, and yet so infinitely rich, that if
a king had laid all his treasures at her feet, as the gift of his love,
he would receive more than he gave, for in her heart reposed the wealth
of the whole human race. Oh! I could weep tears of blood in reflecting
upon what she was, and what she has become. Smile and mock, ladies and
gentlemen; my brain is crazed, and I weep for my lost angel.”
Moritz dashed his hands to his face, and stood swaying backward and
forward, sobbing.
Sighs and regrets were heard in the room. The ladies pressed their
handkerchiefs to their eyes; others regarded with lively sympathy the
handsome young man, who deeply interested them, and gazed reproachfully
at the young baroness, expecting her to be crushed with these reproaches
and tears, but who, on the contrary, stood with proud composure, her
face beaming with joy, gazing at Moritz.
“It is past--my last tear is shed, and my last wail has been uttered,”
cried Philip, uncovering his face. “My angel has changed into a
despicable woman. I loved her as the wretched, disconsolate being adores
the one who reveals paradise to him; and she fooled me into the belief
that she loved me. We exchanged vows of eternal constancy and affection,
and promised each other to bear joyfully every ill in life, and never
separate until death. I should have doubted myself, rather than she who
stood above me, like a divine revelation. I wished to win her by toil
and industry, by my intellect, and the fame by which I could render my
name illustrious. It was, indeed, nothing in the eyes of her grasping
parents; they repulsed me with scorn and pride, but Marie encouraged
me to perfect confidence in her affection. Whilst I wandered on foot to
Silesia, like a poor pilgrim toward happiness, to humble myself before
the king, to beg and combat for my angel, there came temptation, sin,
and vulgarity, in the form of this pale, cowed-down man, who stands
beside my betrothed gasping with rage. The temptation of riches changed
my angel into a demon, a miserable woman bartered for gold! She betrayed
her love, yielding it up for filthy lucre, crushing her nobler nature
in the dust, and driving over it, as did Tullia the dead body of her
father. She sold herself for riches, before which you all kneel, as if
worshipping the golden calf! After selling her soul to a man whom she
despised, even if he were not rich, she has had the boldness to summon
me, the down-trodden and half-crazed victim, to her gilded palace, as if
I were a slave to be attached to her triumphal car. I am a free man, and
have come here only to hurl contempt in her face, to brand her before
you all as a perjurer and a traitress, whom I never will pardon, but
will curse with my latest breath! Now I have relieved my heart of its
burden, I command this woman to deny what I have said, if she can.”
With a dictatorial wave of the hand, he pointed excitedly Marie. A
deathlike stillness reigned. Even the lights seemed to grow dim, and
every one was oppressed as if by excessive sultriness.
Again Moritz commanded Marie to acknowledge the truth of his accusations
before the honored assembly.
She encountered his angry glance with calmness, and a smile was
perceptible upon her lip. “Yes, said she, I acknowledge that I am a
perjurer and a traitor. I have sold myself for riches, and yielded my
peace of soul and my love for mammon. I might justify myself, but I
refrain from it, and will only say that you have told the truth! One day
you will cease to curse me, and, perhaps a tear of pity will glisten in
the eye now flashing with scorn and anger. The poor wife who lies in the
dust implores for the last blessing of your love!”
“Marie!” he cried, with heart-rending anguish, “oh, Marie!” and rushed
toward her, kneeling before her, and clinging to her, pressing a kiss
upon her hand and weeping aloud. Only for a moment did he give way, and
then sprang up wildly, rushing through the crowd, out of the room.
A fearful silence ensued. No one had the courage to break it. Every one
hoped that Marie, through a simulated fainting, would end the painful
scene, and give the guests an opportunity to withdraw. No such
thoughtfulness for her friends occurred to her.
She turned to the Marquis de Treves, who stood pale and deeply agitated
behind her, and burst into a loud laugh.
“How pale you are! Have you taken this comedy for truth? Did you think
this theatrical performance was a reality? You have forgotten what I
told you a month since in Paris, that I had a native talent for acting.
You would contest the matter with me, and I bet you that I could
introduce an impromptu scene in my house, with such artistic skill, that
you would be quite deceived.”
“Indeed I do recall it; how could I have forgotten it?” replied the
marquis, with the ready tact of the diplomat.
“Have I won?” asked Marie, smiling.
“You have played your role, baroness, like an artiste of consummate
talent, and to-morrow I shall have the honor to cancel the debt in your
favor.”
“Now, then, give me your arm, marquis, and conduct me to the
dancing-room, and you, worthy guests, follow us,” said. Marie, leading
the way.
The merry music even was not sufficient to dissipate the awkward
oppression, and by midnight the guests had taken leave, and Marie stood
under the chandelier, pale and rigid, opposite her husband. He had
summoned courage to bewail the terrible scene, weeping and mourning over
her cruelty and his shame. Marie, with chilling indifference, regarded
him without one visible trace of pity.
“You realized what you were doing when you imposed the scorn of this
marriage upon me,” she said. “I have never deceived you with vain hopes!
You have sown dragons’ teeth, and warriors have sprung up to revenge me
upon you. Serve yourself of your riches to fight the combatants. See if
you can bargain for a quiet conscience as easily as you purchased me!
My soul is free though, and it hovers over you as the spirit of
revenge.--Beware!”
She slowly turned and quitted the room. Her diamonds sparkled and blazed
in the myriads of lights. The large mirrors reflected the image of a
haughty woman, who swept proudly past like a goddess of revenge!
Ebenstreit stood gazing after her. He had a horror of the lonely still
room, so gorgeous and brilliantly illuminated--a shudder crept over him,
and he sank, weeping bitterly.
In the little room, the buried happiness of the past, Marie knelt, with
outstretched arms, imploring heaven for mercy. “I thank Thee, Heavenly
Father, that I have been permitted to see him again! My sacrifice was
not in vain--he lives! He is free, and his mind is clear and bright. I
thank Thee that he still loves me. His anger is but love!”